The Trap of Freedom

Jessica stood in the center of the dimly lit office, her breath coming slow and uneven. The room felt too small, too heavy, like the walls were pressing inward, trying to bury her beneath their weight. The file still sat open on the desk, but she couldn’t look at it.

Couldn’t look at herself. Because that’s what it was. Another her. Another vessel. The words rang in her skull, hollow and thunderous.

“You are not the only one.”

She swallowed hard, staring at the floor, at the scuffed tiles beneath her boots, as if grounding herself in something tangible could keep her from unraveling.

“I don’t believe in fate,” she murmured, barely realizing she had spoken aloud.

Mr. Black didn’t respond.

She lifted her head, eyes burning. “You think this means something? That I’m supposed to be some… chosen keeper of divine knowledge?” Her laugh was sharp, bitter. “No. I’ve seen the way the world works. It’s not prophecy. It’s control. Someone built this. Someone designed it.”

Her voice caught in her throat. And then, softer, “I was designed.”

She turned away, pacing toward the far wall, pressing her palms flat against the cold surface. She needed something real, something solid. But even that didn’t feel steady. This was supposed to be over.

She had fought for years to become her own person. To break free from the chains Vanguard had wrapped around her life. And now this? Now she was supposed to believe she had never been free at all?

Jessica let out a slow, shaky breath, “I read Sartre when I was young,” she said, her voice quieter. “Being and Nothingness. It stayed with me.”

Mr. Black didn’t interrupt. He knew her well enough to know that she was speaking for herself now, not for him.

Jessica exhaled. “He argued that existence precedes essence. That we are not born with a purpose, but instead create one for ourselves. That there is no grand meaning waiting for us.” Her fingers curled against the wall. “That we define ourselves, or we are nothing.”

The silence stretched between them.

And then, finally, Mr. Black spoke, “And yet, here you are.”

Jessica turned slowly, her expression hard. “You think this proves I have a purpose?”

He shook his head. “I think it proves you have a choice.”

Jessica let out a sharp breath, running a hand through her hair. She had spent years killing the ghosts of her past, burning her way through secrets and lies to carve out an identity that was hers alone. And now, the past had reached out and pulled her back.

“I don’t want this,” she whispered.

“Then erase yourself again,” he said, not with judgment, but with the exhaustion of someone who’d watched her do it too many times.

Her breath caught. She met Mr. Black’s gaze, but there was no challenge in it. Just quiet certainty.

“You’ve done it before,” he said. “You can do it again.”

Jessica’s pulse pounded against her ribs.

That was the trap, wasn’t it? Erase herself. Forget everything. Start over, just like she had who knows how many times before. Or, she could step forward. Face it. Let the memories in.

She swallowed, her throat dry. “What happens if I remember?”

Mr. Black’s expression was unreadable. “That’s up to you.”

Jessica exhaled, pressing a palm to her forehead. The weight of knowing felt unbearable. She could walk away. She had done it before, but had that ever truly been freedom?

Was she just running from something she had already chosen to forget? She closed her eyes. Deep within her mind, something stirred. A flicker. A fragment. A voice, not her own.

“You were meant to see.”

Her stomach twisted. She opened her eyes, looking past Mr. Black to the file on the desk. She walked toward it, slowly, deliberately. Her fingers hovered over the edge of the page. She turned it. The past was waiting. This time, she wasn’t going to run.